


Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

by ginger_mosaic



Series: The Guinea Pig 'Verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Hunters, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Nightmares, Post-Season/Series 10, i do not recommend it and neither does Cas, in that they talk about using alcohol as a coping mechanism, this is so grossly sweet what am i doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10045658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_mosaic/pseuds/ginger_mosaic
Summary: There are only three reasons Dean wakes up in the middle of the night. One of those reasons is nightmares. They don't even have to be his own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Crap, this family is giving me sappy feelings. It only gets worse from here, guys. Escape while you still can.

 

There are only three reasons Dean wakes up in the middle of the night. One is monsters, but he hasn’t gotten attacked in his sleep in years, so that one’s moot. The second is Cas’s goddamn cold feet, which is relatively new and could be classified under reason one because they are _unnaturally_ cold. For some reason, Cas refuses to wear socks; Dean is pretty sure it’s to torment him.

The third reason is nightmares. They don’t even have to be his own.

“Dean.”

His hand slips under his pillow, his fingers brushing the hilt of his knife. (His gun’s under the bed; Cas read an article online about guns going off accidentally in some people’s beds, so he banned them from beneath their pillows. “Oh, but _knives_ are okay?” Dean had asked. “Knives don’t have triggers,” said Cas. “Tell that to Wolverine,” Dean grumbled. Cas ignored him, which is fine, because Dean prefers to sleep with _any_ weapon under his pillow. Sam calls it his safety blanket; Dean tells Sam to shut up.)

“ _Dean_.”

It takes him just that brief moment of his fingers closing around the hilt to recognize the voice behind the hissing, and he lets go and blinks up at Claire. She’s standing in the middle of the floor (out of arm’s reach; smart girl) and the only reason he recognizes her is because the door is open and the emergency lights out in the hallway illuminate her from behind, her blonde hair creating a sort of halo around her head with the light, and he’ll never tell her about that comparison ever.

“Claire?” he mutters, lifting his head and squinting. Unless they bring a laptop in, the bedroom is usually all cave darkness, and he and Cas got back from a hunt late and sort of just fell into bed, so even the bunker’s dim emergency lights are a bit too bright. He rubs his eyes and groans as he pushes himself up onto an elbow. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” she says, but she’s staring at him hardcore and she wouldn’t be in here, quietly sneaking into their bedroom that she usually avoids like it’s disease-ridden (and hey, rude, Dean keeps his living space pretty tidy, thank you very much), if it was nothing. She doesn’t move either, so Dean sits up.

“Claire,” he tries again, and Cas shifts next to him, turning to look over his busted shoulder.

“What’s going on?” asks Cas, and it’s half a rasp and half a groan and maybe a teaspoon of a whine because he _hates_ waking up. Most days, Dean doesn’t blame him.

Claire shifts her weight and bites her lip. “I…I had a dream,” she says, her arms wrapping around herself, her shoulders slumped and tense.

“A dream?” asks Cas, like he doesn’t even know what those are. And maybe he doesn’t; do angels—or former angels, as the case may be—dream?

“What, uh,” says Dean, rubbing his eyes with his fingers again. “What about?”

Claire shrugs and her eyes move to Cas, who hasn’t turned more than a shoulder glance. “Are you okay?” she blurts, and seems to regret it immediately, biting her lip again.

Cas frowns and moves to sit up slowly to squint at her. “Yes,” he says slowly. “It was just a scratch, Claire. I’m fine.”

It was _not_ just a scratch; it was a whole window and a stretch of parking lot asphalt, resulting in a dislocated shoulder and a gash too close to a major artery in his thigh for Dean’s comfort, but Cas seems to resent his mortality, so Dean doesn’t say anything. He’d patched Cas up and prescribed bed rest and maybe a vacation from hunting for the both of them for a while. It had been sort of a brutal hunt anyway; Dean had come back with a few scratches and bruises of his own, and maybe a pulled muscle in his leg, he’s not sure.

“You don’t heal as quickly as you used to, you know,” says Claire, almost like she’s scolding him.

Cas’s frown deepens, and he nods. Dean narrows his eyes at Claire.

“Claire,” he says, “what was the dream about?”

She bounces nervously on the bare balls of her feet, glancing around the room. Dean lets her stall, but he doesn’t have a lot of patience at his best. Now he’s exhausted and sore and has no idea what time it is. He’s about to ask her again when she finally speaks.

“You weren’t snoring,” she says, inexplicably.

Dean blinks at her. “In your dream?”

“No. Just now.”

He frowns. “I don’t snore.”

Cas groans and falls back onto his side. “Yes, you do.”

Dean shoots a glare at his back, and then turns back to Claire. She’s still watching him—both of them, actually, and he thinks he gets it now—and he sighs.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks. She chews her lip, shrugs again, and shakes her head, but she still doesn’t move, and he knows this. Sam used to do this to their dad, but he never got it or paid attention. “Want something to drink?” he tries.

She hesitates and then nods. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he says, and he swings his legs out of bed. Claire jumps and looks away, but he’s _wearing pants_ , for Christ’s sake, and she seems to realize this because then there’s an embarrassed slouch to her shoulders as she slinks out to stand in the hall while Dean tugs a shirt on. Cas sits up as Dean reaches for a flannel shirt hanging off his lamp.

“I got it, Cas,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”

Cas shakes his head and runs his good hand through his hair, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I think I’ll take an aspirin,” he says, very carefully not moving his right shoulder. He grabs Sam’s old arm sling and Dean’s bath robe to slip them on over his white shirt and Batman boxers combo, leaving his right arm out of the sleeve. Dean watches him, standing by in case he needs help, but Cas manages by himself, and then Dean leads the way to the bunker’s kitchen.

Claire sits down at the small breakfast table they’ve got set up in the actual kitchen, tucking her knees up onto the chair with her so she can hug them. Cas digs through the medicine bottles they keep in here—there are more in the bathroom but they keep some in here too for hangover-related reasons—until he finds some aspirin, and Dean sets the kettle to boil, figuring tea is better than coffee at this hour. He rummages through the drawer where they keep the tea and pulls out one of Sam’s herbal tea boxes.

“Herbal tea is decaf, right?” he says, squinting at the box.

“I dunno,” says Claire.

“Yes,” says Cas. “Herbal teas are not technically teas, not being made from _Camellia sinesis_ , so they contain no caffeine. Usually.”

Dean grunts and pulls three bags of chamomile tea from the box to drop into their mugs. He glances at Claire, who is watching Cas fill a large glass with water for throwing back what is probably too many aspirin, and opens a cupboard to pull out a fifth of whiskey. He grabs a glass, pours a finger, and walks it over to Claire.

“Here,” he says, and she raises her eyebrows at him. “For until the tea is ready. I’d make you an old fashioned, but we’re out of bitters.”

She hesitates and then reaches out to take it from him. She just stares at it for a while, and when she finally takes a sip, she makes a face, which, good. She probably shouldn’t develop a taste for the stuff for a while yet.

“What about you?” she asks, glancing back at the bottle.

He really could use a drink, but he knows he shouldn’t. He feels Cas’s eyes on his back, silently judging him. “I’ll finish whatever you don’t,” he says, gesturing to the single finger of whiskey, both to satisfy his own desire for a stiff drink and to take the pressure off her to finish it. There. Compromise.

Claire nods and looks down into the glass. After another long moment, she takes another tiny sip, and Dean sits down.

“You and Sam get into any trouble this week?” he asks, and Cas joins them at the table with his gigantic glass of water. He’s going to end up having to get up to pee in the middle of the night later, and Dean will have to deal with his grumbling.

“We went bowling on Tuesday,” says Claire.

“You kick his ass?” She smirks, and Dean sits back. “Atta girl.”

“What was your score?” Cas asks.

“One thirty-one.”

Dean shrugs. “Not bad. What’d Sam get?”

Claire hides her grin behind her glass. “I promised not to tell.”

Dean laughs. “Oh man. Was it under a hundred?”

“He made me pinky swear,” Claire says, grinning viciously. “I haven’t pinky sweared since I was _nine_.”

“He’s a big baby.”

Claire nods and takes another sip of whiskey, absently wrinkling her nose in distaste.

“You don’t gotta drink it if you don’t like it,” Dean tells her.

“You’re only saying that because you want it,” says Claire, but she sets it aside on the table, eyeing it almost suspiciously. “Mom would be so mad.”

Dean glances at Cas, and Cas raises his eyebrows. Claire _never_ talks about Jimmy and Amelia.

“She didn’t like drinking?” asks Dean, aiming for casual and probably missing the mark if Cas’s frown is any indication.

“She hated it,” Claire confirms. “When Dad…” She stops, and Cas goes still next to Dean. Claire’s eyes drop to the floor and her mouth tightens, as though regretting letting the words slip out. The silence stretches on for a long time, and Dean wracks his brain for something to say to change the subject, maybe to that dumb guinea pig, but he’s too slow. In slow motion, Claire’s expression tightens, and then she bursts into tears.

Dean starts in surprise, sitting up straight in his chair, but Cas doesn’t move, still as a statue, and Claire buries her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she cries. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“No—Claire, no,” Dean says, and he reaches for her, moving to the edge of his seat, and pulls her toward him. She lets him drag her forward on her own chair and when he gets his arms around her, she clutches his flannel in her fists and presses her face into his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says, her voice muffled against his shirt and underneath all that blonde hair of hers.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay.” He rubs her back with one hand, holding her up with the other, and glances at Cas. He’s just staring at Claire, pain pulling his brow, his mouth tight in the same way Claire’s had been before her outburst, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, how much is left over from Jimmy’s memories and how much is stuff he’s picked up from Claire. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he displayed behavior from his vessel—the hamburgers come immediately to mind (the early hundreds, Jesus Christ)—but Cas has also picked up things from Dean and Sam, like the way he pours his coffee with his left hand like Dean does so he can lift the mug to his mouth directly after pouring and while still holding the coffee pot, and Dean _swears_ he’s seen Cas pull a trademarked Sam Winchester Bitch Face or two. He wonders how much of her dad Claire sees in Cas, if it hurts every time, the way Dean feels a dull ache whenever he meets someone named Mary or when Sam pulls some stubborn shit that is particularly John Winchester-like or when Garth shouts “Balls!” in frustration.

“I’m sorry,” Claire stammers through her sobs. “I just… Sometimes… I’m still mad, but sometimes I miss them so much—”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Dean says. “I get it.” He glances at Cas again. “We get it. It’s okay.”

“I can’t—” She sniffles and then mumbles into his shoulder, “I can’t lose you guys, too.”

Dean snaps his gaze to Cas, and Cas finally meets his eyes, looking just as stunned. Cas has a dark purple bruise on his temple and a cut on his lip, and Dean’s fingers are bandaged and the wrap around Cas’s thigh probably needs to be replaced soon because Dean can see a dark spot creeping out under the edge of his boxers. They look all beat to hell, and when they stumbled into the bunker at ten, Sam and Claire were still up, watching some CW show on Sam’s laptop (and why were they still at the table anyway when Dean fixed up the perfectly nice den). Sam had jumped up to help Dean carry Cas into the bathroom to change the makeshift bandage on him, and now that Dean looks back, he remembers Claire’s wide, worried eyes. _It’s just a witch_ , they’d told her. _We’ll be back in a couple of days._

“We’re not going anywhere, kid,” says Dean.

Claire huffs out a despairing laugh. “Hunting is dangerous.” As if he needs a reminder.

“Is that what the dream was about?” he asks. Claire sniffles again and nods, and Dean pulls back a little. “Hey,” he says, running a hand over her hair to smooth it and to try to tip her head back, but she keeps her eyes resolutely on his shirt. “Look, even if we—You’re not alone anymore. We wouldn’t leave you alone. You’ve got—You’ve got Sam and Charlie and Jody and Alex, and even Garth. We’ve got you covered.”

Claire shakes her head and wipes at her eyes. “I just…” She wrinkles her nose, but before she can start to cry again, Dean pulls her into another hug.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Claire nods and clutches his shirt, which he’s definitely going to have to wash now. Oh well. At least it was for a good cause and not because of some monster goo (unless you could teenagers as monsters, which, okay, _maybe_ ).

Suddenly Cas appears at his elbow, and he jumps because he didn’t even notice him get up. Claire pulls away, and Cas holds out a roll of paper towels, looking down at her solemnly. She stares at him briefly, as though she’s never seen him before, and then she takes the roll.

“Thanks, Cas,” she whispers, and she rips off a sheet, wipes her face, and blows her nose. They should probably get tissues. They have a teenaged girl living with them; why don’t they already have boxes of tissues?

“Claire, I—” Cas begins, but the kettle bursts into whistling and they all jump. Cas looks panicked for a second, and he hesitates before hurrying to turn off the stove. He busies himself with pouring the tea one-handed, and Dean frowns at his back until Claire speaks.

“How do you do it?” she asks quietly.

Dean turns his frown to her, but she’s looking at her hands in her lap, tearing the edges of a folded paper towel.

“What?” he asks.

She bites her lip. “You… Your parents. Does it… Does it get easier?”

Dean watches her for a while. “No,” he says at last, and she looks up at him, startled, but he can’t lie to her. “Some days are maybe better than others, but it always hurts. The important thing is,” he says, leaning down to hold her gaze, “that we don’t let it break us. We carry that hurt and it becomes a part of us, but we don’t let it break us. Okay?”

She has another moment of hesitation, and then she sniffs and nods. “Okay,” she whispers.

“Good girl,” he says, and Cas comes over with two mugs of tea, gripped with his one good hand. Dean takes them from him and sets them on the table, and Cas kneels down in front of Claire’s chair. She stares at him with wide eyes, and Cas looks like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. The one held to his chest by the sling opens and closes into a fist, and the other hovers between him and Claire until he finally sets it on his knee.

“Claire, if I… If I seem distant,” he says uncertainly, “I… It’s not that I… I don’t wish to cause you any pain. If I could, I would—I wish—”

Claire throws her arms around his neck, startling both Cas and Dean, and Cas looks at Dean, panic clear in his wide blue eyes.

“It’s okay, Cas,” Claire says, her face hidden in Cas’s shoulder. “I don’t… I don’t see him in you anymore.”

Cas finally figures out what to do with his hand. He wraps his good arm around Claire and grips her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s different,” she says. “I need you, too, Cas.”

Cas rests his cheek on Claire’s head, closes his eyes, breathes in. Dean puts a hand on his shoulder, and they stay there for a while, just breathing and listening to Claire’s sniffles until they become too wet and she pulls away to blow her nose again.

“Sorry,” she says again, wiping her face with a new paper towel, and Dean thinks if she apologizes one more time, he’s going to ground her, but now’s probably not the time for weird parental references.

They sit for a while, drinking their tea, until Claire looks ready to drop off, and then Cas gathers their mugs and Dean finishes off Claire’s whiskey. She watches him do it, her eyes following the glass as he lifts it and then sets it back down, empty, and finally settling on his face. He raises an eyebrow at her.

“Does it help?” she asks.

And fuck, how is he supposed to answer that? He’s not exactly the right person to be speaking on the effectiveness of coping with alcohol.

“It would be irresponsible of us to reply with any answer other than no,” says Cas, just leaving the mugs in the sink and dropping the tea bags in the compost bin that Cas and Sam decided was a good idea. “That said,” Cas continues, walking back to the table, “it does dull the pain temporarily. Sometimes.”

Claire grimaces and Dean thinks that they might just be the worst parents ever, but then Cas offers a hand to Claire.

“I find that watching movies with friends is much more effective, however,” he says. “And, in some ways, more pleasant.”

“It does taste pretty gross,” Claire agrees, taking his hand and letting him pull her to her feet. “I dunno how you stand it.”

“You gotta work through the pain,” Dean says, following them back to the sleeping quarters of the bunker.

“As with most things,” says Cas, putting an arm around Claire’s shoulders to steer her toward their bedroom, so Dean guesses he was serious about the movie thing.

They put in some Disney movie that has lots of pink and songs that are too sugary and catchy and a lost princess, and Claire mocks it just as much as Dean does. She falls asleep between them not even halfway in. Cas’s hand moves from Claire’s shoulder to rub the back of Dean’s neck, since his arm is already around Claire’s shoulders anyway.

“We’re the best parents ever,” Dean says. Cas hums in agreement, and when Dean wakes up in the morning, they’ll still be like that, Claire wedged between them like it’s exactly where she belongs.

**Author's Note:**

> :) Three cheers for whoever can Name That Disney Movie.


End file.
